“A bit,” said Agatha gruffly.
After a while, Agatha fell asleep. Toni stopped the car and gently removed a smouldering cigarette from Agatha’s fingers, stubbed it out in the ashtray and then drove on.
Poor old thing, thought Toni. As she approached Cheltenham, she saw a police car driven by a young woman. It would be nice to work with young people for a change, thought Toni, because Agatha’s fifty-something years seemed very old to her.
She nudged Agatha. “Wake up! I need directions.”
“Eh, what? I wasn’t really asleep,” said Agatha defiantly. “Go in on the London Road and then cut up to Montpelier Terrace. Puddleton Close is up the back on the left.”
When they reached Montpelier Terrace, Agatha said, “Turn left here and then third on the right and then left again. It’s a cul-se-sac. Number four-A, which means it’s probably a basement flat. Oh, damn!”
“What?”
“Wait a minute while I phone Patrick. I’ll see if one of his old cop friends can check the police records under her name.”
Toni waited until Agatha had given Patrick his instructions and then asked, “So do we get out and start to question the neighbours?”
“No, I think I’d like to hear from Patrick first, and I’m hungry. The only food I got on the train was one ghastly little dried-up croissant. We’ll leave the car here. There’s an antique-gallery place near here with a cafe.”
Agatha ordered a bacon sandwich and coffee in the cafe. “I wish Patrick would hurry up,” she mumbled between bites.
“Might take all day,” Toni pointed out. “He’s got to find his friend first.”
“Well, we’ll give it another half an hour.”
Toni scowled into her cup of coffee.
“What’s bothering you?” asked Agatha. “Half an hour seems like too long?”
“No, I was thinking about sex.”
“At your age, that’s all anyone thinks about,” said Agatha.
“I don’t mean it the way you think I mean it. It all frightens me a bit.”
“You’re a virgin?”
“Yes, still. I got scared off.”
Agatha lit a cigarette, saw the horrified look the waitress gave her, remembered the smoking ban and sulkily stubbed it out in her saucer.
“Tell me about it.”
“It was in my final year at school,” said Toni. “There was this fellow. All the girls were mad for him and I was flattered when he asked me out on a date. We’d had a bit too much to drink at a club and then he led me down an alley at the back of the club and pushed me up against the wall and began to tear at my clothes. I screamed my head off, pushed him away and ran for my life.
“He put it about the school that I was a frigid lesbian and they all seemed to believe him until he was up in court on a charge of rape. I think I’m too romantic for sex.”
“The fact is,” said Agatha, “that women’s sexual freedom is less than it ever was.”
“What about the pill?”
“Oh, that’s all right. Saves a lot of unwanted children from being born. But now women are expected to perform all the tricks of the brothel, shave their pubic hair and go in for any nasty deviations the men want. That’s not freedom. That’s domination. But stick it out, Toni. You’re a pretty girl and bright. You’ll meet someone nice.”
Agatha’s phone rang. She scrambled in her handbag for her mobile. “Yes, Patrick,” Toni heard her say. Agatha listened intently, a smile spreading across her face. Finally she said, “That’s great work. Type it out and leave it on my desk in the office.” She rang off.
“Listen to this, Toni. Fifteen years ago, the saintly vicar’s wife was booked for possession and for supplying acid at the clubs. Why on earth she married a vicar, I’ll never know. Let’s go round to Puddleton Close and see what we can dig up.”
“It looks very upmarket,” said Toni as she parked once more outside 4-A.
“A lot of these places have been gentrified,” said Agatha. “Let’s see if there’s anyone at home.”
They walked down the stairs to the basement flat and rang the bell. The door was opened by a slim young man wearing jeans and an open-necked shirt. He had a shock of ginger hair and a pleasant face marred by acne scars.
Agatha explained they were private detectives trying to find out about a certain Trixie Webster who had lived in the flat fifteen years ago.
“No use asking me,” he said. “I only moved in a month ago and I think three sets of people lived here before me. Try old Mrs. Brother. She lives in the top flat and she’s lived there for yonks.”
Agatha thanked him. She and Toni climbed the stairs out of the basement and up to the main front door. Agatha rang the bell marked “Brother.” An elderly voice came over the intercom demanding to know who was there.
Agatha patiently explained her business. There was a long silence while she fretted on the doorstep, and then, to her relief, the door was buzzed open.
Mrs. Brother was waiting for them on the landing at the top of the stairs. She was stooped and wrinkled and
